


Warrior's Rest

by ideserveyou



Category: Arthur of the Britons
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Battle, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideserveyou/pseuds/ideserveyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grieving Kai finds comfort from an unexpected source</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior's Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the ever-patient trepkos for beta, and especially for figuring out what that dream meant, because I really had no idea!

_The big Saxon in the corner is drunk._

 _He’s been lodging here for the best part of two weeks, and I’ve not yet seen him sober. But then there’s nothing unusual in that. All Saxons drink like … well, like Saxons; I have learned to keep my head down and just carry on pouring the ale whenever they pass through here._

 _This one, though, is different. For one thing, he arrived on a horse, which is now getting fat, out in the stables around the back._

 _For another, he’s drunk on mead._

 _Since when did the Saxons drink Celtic mead?_

 

I shouldn’t be drinking mead. The taste of it brings back such memories. Those long winter evenings listening to the minstrel’s songs and telling tall tales; the Beltane fires and all the village maidens, looking their best, but none of them so beautiful as my own true love …

 

And that last night before the battle.

 

We shared a drinking horn around the fire, turn and turn about, my brother, and my father and I.

It was oddly quiet: not a dog was barking, not a raised voice was heard. Even the wind had dropped.

‘It’s the calm before the storm,’ Llud said, looking thoughtfully into the flames. He reached out his good hand for the mead horn.

‘It’s going to be quite some storm, by all accounts,’ Arthur said.

‘Shall we weather it, do you think?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ Arthur replied. ‘So long as we stand by one another. As we always do.’

 

‘Here’s to weathering the storm, then,’ said Llud, and drank, and passed the horn to me.

‘Here’s to our next drink, when our enemies are defeated,’ I said, and drank in my turn, and gave the horn to my brother, feeling his fingers tremble at my touch.

‘Here’s to the three of us,’ Arthur said. ‘Let the storm do its worst. With you two beside me, how can I fail?’

 

And he smiled at Llud, and at me, and without another word we all three clasped hands: two good hands, and one silver, and stronger than either. It felt cold in mine, but reassuring: solid and enduring as a rock.

 

I was still smiling as I fell asleep.

 

 _Strange that he’s alone. You never see Saxons visiting this town on their own, even though we’re supposedly conquered territory. They always stick together in groups. But this one is a puzzle. Wouldn’t tell us his name, or where he was from, or yet where he was going. Maybe that last was simply because he didn’t know himself._

 _No doubting that he’s a Saxon, though …_

 _‘Hey, wench! This pitcher’s empty. Bring me another – and no short measures this time.’_

 _He’s in a bad way today: swaying on his stool, slurring his words whenever he speaks, which is not often._

 _I wonder what his silence hides._

 

There were too many of them. At first light, they poured over the ridge like ants when their nest is disturbed, not caring how many fell dead or injured.

 

‘This is going to be bad,’ Llud muttered into my ear, as the spears and arrows flew over our heads and into the enemy’s ranks. ‘I hope Arthur and the others are on their way. Meanwhile, you and I are going to have to fight to defend this fortress.’

‘We’ve done it before,’ I said, grinning, the battle-lust still hot in my veins and my axe heavy and eager in my hands.

‘And we’ll do it again,’ he answered, clouting me on the back with his good hand.

 

And then there was no time to say more, for the assault was on us, and we fought for our lives, shoulder to shoulder across the splintered gateway; the sun was high in the sky when at last we saw Arthur’s white horse and the Celtic forces, coming over the ridge to our relief: cleaving a way through the Saxons’ rearguard.

 

‘Watch your back!’ Llud roared at me, and I whipped round, my axe crunching into the ribs of the warrior standing behind me with upraised weapon, and leapt clear as the body fell.

‘Thank you,’ I gasped, wiping my sweating forehead on my arm. ‘I’m glad to have you beside me.’

‘I may only have one hand,’ he chuckled. ‘But I’ve still got two good eyes.’ Then his face darkened. ‘Behind you!’

 

This time there were three of them.

 

The first fell easily to my axe; the second was soon fighting desperately against Llud’s big sword; but the third had time to side-step. I saw the axe coming down, and although I parried it, the blade clipped my shoulder, and the force of the blow made me stumble to my knees.

I groped for my dropped weapon; struggled to rise, my left arm slippery with blood and my head swimming. Above me, my enemy raised his axe again.

 

‘Kai!’

 

And Llud was there, come out of nowhere. He thrust his blade into the Saxon’s exposed armpit, and I heard the man scream as the bright blood flowed from his death-wound; but it was a scream of triumph, as with his last strength he drove his axe home.

 

My father crumpled soundlessly on top of me.

 

The last thing I remember is the coldness of his silver hand against my cheek.

 

 _He is the only customer in here this afternoon. He sits slumped and listless, his elbow on the table and his cheek resting on his hand._

 _As I set the filled pitcher on the table and lift the empty one, he grunts something that might be a curse, or thanks, but he doesn’t bother to look up._

 _And that’s odd too, for a Saxon. He hasn’t tried anything: not even when he’s been relatively sober. This afternoon I doubt he’d be able to put a hand on any of the four breasts he’d see if he actually looked up at me for once._

 _His eyes are looking inwards, and a frown is creasing his brows._

 _Whatever it is, it’s not a happy memory._

 

When I awoke, I was in my own bed, and Arthur was sitting beside me, pale and drawn. I felt the pain in my left shoulder, and the memory hit me, harder than the axe blow.

 

‘Llud!’ I called out.

 

I saw the pain on Arthur’s face, and Llud’s empty bed behind him, and the light died in my heart.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ I whispered.

Arthur’s eyes filled with tears, and he nodded.

 

‘Take me to him.’ I needed to see him, to see with my own eyes. My voice rose to a shout: ‘Take me to him!’

‘Kai, you’re in no fit state,’ Arthur protested, as I struggled to get out of bed. ‘You were badly injured – you need rest.’

‘I must go to him.’

‘You’re not strong enough,’ Arthur said. ‘There’s nothing you can do. He’s at peace, Kai. Gone beyond our reach – waiting in the golden hall for us to join him.’

‘Help me, damn you – or go away. One or the other.’

 

With a sigh, he pulled my arm over his shoulders, hauled me to my feet, and helped me to limp through into the hall.

 

There were a lot of people in there: it seemed like the whole village. They had laid my father out in state on a trestle, washed, and mended, and dressed in his one set of decent clothes, with his sword at his side and his silver hand resting across his breast in a final salute.

He looked, as Arthur had said, like a man at peace; as though this were no more than a summer afternoon nap, from which he would soon awaken, to chastise everybody for standing around when there was work to be done.

‘There’s always a lot to do after a battle,’ he used to say. ‘Even more than there was before it. And then there’s always the next one to prepare for.’

 

But no more.

 

No more battles for Llud of the Silver Hand.

 

And suddenly I was angry.

 

‘Get out,’ I yelled, tearing myself free of Arthur’s supporting arm. ‘All of you. Get out of here, leave us be!’

They looked round, startled.

I grabbed Llud’s sword; stood by my father with one hand on the corner of his bier, ready to defend him against all comers, fighting down my treacherous tears.

‘Out!’

They obeyed me without question.

 

Never argue with a madman, especially one who’s armed.

 

That was another thing Llud used to say.

 

Blackness took my mind, and I sank to my knees, clasping Llud’s good hand, now as cold as his silver one.

After a while I came to myself a little; and now something more than my grief was troubling me. I wiped my eyes and looked around the empty hall.

 

The villagers were gone.

 

And I had driven Arthur away along with them.

 

 _The Saxon makes a small sound of distress, and I see that now there are tears in his eyes. He buries his face in his folded arms; his shoulders shake._

 _My heart is wrung for him, but I dare not offer comfort. Such men are dangerous; and after all, what he suffers from may be no more than the melancholy that the drink brings on._

 _As I look at him, I notice something odd; there is no axe at his belt._

 _A Saxon without an axe?_

 _Perhaps he sold it to buy drink. But surely a true Saxon would have sold the horse, the cloak, or even that fine studded tunic first?_

 

We stood together by our father’s pyre, as the minstrel sang a song in his honour, and the women of the village covered the body with flowers.

 

Arthur it was, who set the torch to the wood. I could not bring myself to help him.

 

The flames licked and crackled, bearing our father away on his journey along the warriors’ road to the hall of rest.

 

I found that I was gripping my axe haft. It was a Saxon axe that robbed Llud of his life, and in that moment, I hated myself, my Saxon self, with my Saxon weapon at my belt; and I tore the axe from its loop and flung it into the heart of the fire.

The polished handle with its careful bindings was slow to catch, despite the fierceness of the flames; I watched as the wood warped, and blackened, and finally flared and crumbled to ash.

I felt my heart turning to ash in my chest.

I turned away and went back to the longhouse to weep alone.

 

Arthur left the funeral feast as soon as he decently could, to come in search of me.

He tried to comfort me, but like a wild beast, savage with hurt, I snarled at him: ‘Don’t try to be kind to me! I don’t deserve comfort. It was my fault. I distracted him. Only for a moment, but it cost him his life.’

‘You can’t know that,’ Arthur said.

‘I do know it. I was there.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘It is as much my fault as yours. If I’d done my job properly you would never have been surrounded in the first place. Stop being so hard on yourself.’

He sat down on the side of the bed, and put his arms around me. ‘Come on, Kai. Let me in. Let us comfort each other, you and I.’

 

And I tried. I owed him that much. I watched as he stripped himself, and I lifted up the covers to let him in, and I held him, and touched him, and I worked his prick to give him the relief that he so desperately needed; but when he tried to do the same for me, I was limp in his hand and I felt … nothing.

 

He was gentle, and kind, but I could not bring myself to yield to him; nor could I explain why.

All that night I lay next to him unsleeping, listening to his even breaths, while the slow tears soaked into my hair.

 

For the next few days I was lost; bereft; the only Saxon in the village; without allies, with no strong father to defend my right to my place among the Celts. I was on edge, seeing dark looks everywhere; shoulders were turned against me, conversations suddenly ceased at my approach. I felt that our people blamed me for their loss, and for the sudden feeling of insecurity that pervaded the village.

And although he never said it, I felt sure that Arthur blamed me too.

 

Perhaps that was why I couldn’t bring myself to let him share my bed again.

 

 _He’s gone quiet now. I think he’s fallen asleep, so I risk tiptoeing over for a closer look._

 _Yes, he’s well away. I’d never noticed he had such long eyelashes. He looks peaceful when you can’t see the pain in his eyes: one arm curled around the mead jug, and one under his head._

 _I long to run my fingers through that golden hair; press my lips to that full mouth; warm myself against that big, lean body: such a beautiful body; and such a waste, to be drinking it into ruin._

 _I wonder who he is. And how he came to be here …_

 

I hadn’t finished packing the saddlebag when Arthur walked in.

 

He looked blankly at me. ‘You’re leaving.’

‘I have to.’ I tried not to look at him.

‘But I need you.’

He sounded puzzled, and hurt. I felt I was being torn in two. I struggled to find words to explain myself to him.

‘Arthur, you don’t need what I’ve become.’ I looked up at him hopelessly. ‘Never think that I don’t treasure the memory of what we had … what we were to each other. But that time is over. It won’t come again.’

I turned back to the meagre pile of my possessions on the lid of the clothes chest.

Arthur gripped my shoulder; spun me round to face him. ‘How can you say that?’ His voice was a shocked whisper.

I steeled myself. ‘Because it’s true. All I will achieve by staying here is to make you more unhappy, day by day. Myself too. Everything reminds me of what I’ve lost. I’ll find a place, somewhere they need a good fighter, make a new start ...’

 

My words trailed away into silence, swallowed up by the darkness in his eyes.

 

He looked at me with longing for a moment, then drew a breath, as though to ask me for something: a last kiss perhaps. But his pride rose up, and stiffened his backbone. He gave a small nod of acceptance, and released his hold, then turned without another word and left me to collect the remnants of my shattered life.

 

He did not even watch me leave the village. Perhaps he could not bear to.

 

I rode aimlessly to the north and east, into unfamiliar territory where none would ask me questions. It took me a whole week to realise what I had been too blinded by my own selfish grief to see: that Arthur’s loss had been at least as great as my own. But by then it was too late.

I have hurt him beyond endurance; and I know that his pride would not allow him to take me back, even if mine would allow me to turn round and start for home. So here I am, drowning both my sorrow and my pride in drink, with my past lost for ever and my future uncertain.

I know I should leave this place: go on, and find some battle to fight where I can at least earn myself a warrior’s death, to wait in the golden hall with Llud until Arthur returns to us both.

 

But I am so tired. I’ll just rest here a while longer…

 

 

 _There’s a scuffle outside the door, but the drunken Saxon is well away, and snores on._

 _Then I hear Arn the stable lad raise his voice in protest. I go outside to see what is happening._

 _A Celt is standing there: a little weaselly man, with long black hair, a sharp pointed nose and bright, knowing eyes._

 _‘I tell you, I am a holy man,’ he says. ‘Material things do not concern me. My only concern is with the soul.’_

 _‘You still have to pay me for stabling your horse,’ Arn says, hands on hips. ‘Or I’ll get the master and you can argue it out with him. He’s twice your size and will likely double the price.’_

 _‘I do not believe in violence, my son. I will pay you what you ask, this once, but your soul will suffer, you know,’ says the little man, pulling some coins from the purse at his waist and handing them over with reluctance._

 _Then he sees me watching, and raises the wooden cross that hangs around his neck. ‘A drink, my child,’ he says, smiling with what he thinks is holy sweetness. ‘Charity for a poor man of the cloth who has travelled far with no thought for his own comfort.’_

 _‘I’ll bring you some water, sir,’ I say, trying to keep my face straight._

 _He licks his lips. ‘My thanks. I don’t suppose I might persuade you to emulate one of Our Lord’s miracles and turn that water into wine?’_

 _I shake my head, and have to bite my lip to hide my mirth. ‘Only the master has that power in this house, sir. But you’re welcome to come in and rest a while.’_

 _‘Water it is, then,’ he says, rolling his eyes to heaven._

 _And then he looks in through the doorway, and his whole manner changes. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmurs. ‘It seems I have been blessed with a miracle, after all.’_

 

I wake with a start as the mead jug is pulled from under my elbow. A familiar voice says in my ear: ‘I think you’ve had enough now, my friend. Time for a reckoning.’

 

I look up into the eyes of Rolf the Preacher.

 

 _So our solitary Saxon does have friends. One, at least; or perhaps this unholy holy man is an enemy. He is wearing a sword as well as that cross._

 _Under pretence of cleaning the tables, I move closer to them._

 _‘Listen, you fool. I got my brother killed – I know how it feels to lose one.’_

 _The little preacher has lost his cloak of insincerity, and is leaning forward and staring at the Saxon with a terrible intensity. ‘I do not want either of you to know such a thing.’_

 _‘He doesn’t need me,’ the other man says, his jaw set stubbornly._

 _The Celt snorts. ‘You weren’t there when we fought off that band of Scots ten days ago. We won by the skin of our teeth. He isn’t the leader he once was. He knows it, and all the Celts know it. He’s lost a mother and two fathers, and now his brother has left his side.’_

 _I don’t hear the reply, but the preacher’s face is full of sadness._

 _‘That’s a terrible thing to say. Terrible. But he said it too. I asked him, after the battle, asked him where you were, and he looked at me with empty eyes and said, “I have no brother.” That was the moment when I knew I had to come and seek you out. He’s too proud ever to do that himself. But he’s just a cold shell without you beside him. He’s lost that warm heart that your father, God rest his soul, used to speak about.’_

 _And now both of them are wiping their eyes. I creep softly away again, into the shelter of the doorway._

 _‘I can’t go back,’ I hear the Saxon say._

 _‘You’re going back this very day,’ his friend replies. ‘If I have to tie you up and drag you every step of the way. But before we start … is there any mead left in that flagon? It’s thirsty work, performing miracles.’_

 

Somehow I find myself on my feet, with my few possessions packed and the stable lad dispatched to fetch my horse. I sway a little, and Rolf takes my arm to steady me.

 

‘I need to pay my reckoning,’ I say, and I look round for the dark-haired serving girl. She is already looking over the tally on the slate, and counting on her fingers.

‘That will be four in silver, sir,’ she says. Her voice wavers, and I see that she is trying not to weep.

I haven’t really looked at her properly in all the time I have been hiding here. But she has been good to me: tactful, considerate and incurious.

 

I pay over the silver, and wait while she locks it away in the chest and scratches out the marks that count my wasted time and my shame.

‘Thank you,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘May the gods be with you.’

She gives me a wan smile in return. ‘And with you,’ she says, and turns away, picks up a pile of dirty crockery and goes back to the kitchens.

 

‘Pretty girl,’ Rolf says, as he hoists me unceremoniously into my saddle, which seems further off the ground than I remember.

‘Mmm,’ I reply absently.

 

We are several miles down the road before it occurs to me that I never asked her name.

 

 _‘What are you snivelling about, girl?’ the cook asks, as I put down my burdens and fumble for a rag to wipe my tears._

 _I shake my head, ignoring her._

 _She would not understand._

 _I never asked his name._

 _I hope he comes safely home to his brother…_

 

 

The sentry on the gate is so startled that he almost drops his shield as I ride in. He gapes at me like a fish out of water, and in another life I know I would find it funny. But there is no laughter in my heart today; only warring fear and hope, and a thin thread of desperate courage that has somehow kept me on my homeward road, even after Rolf left me to return to his own people.

No doubt all the mead we drank together at our last stop has helped to keep up my courage, too.

And now here I am, and the fear is gaining the upper hand and rising into the back of my throat.

 

‘Arthur,’ I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. ‘Where is Arthur?’

The sentry still can’t speak, but he looks towards the longhouse.

‘Thank you,’ I say, or at least I think I do.

 

I wish this horse did not sway so much when he walks. It is making my head swim. But no matter, we are crossing the yard, and somehow I am off the horse and still on my feet, and the longhouse door creaks open.

 

I walk through, concentrating on remaining upright. The hall is bigger than I remember, and none of the walls will stay in the same places as I look at them.

And then I forget the damn walls because there is Arthur; my Arthur, rising from his carven chair, his face as pale as though he’d seen a ghost.

 

He is coming towards me, and I don’t know what I am going to say when he reaches me; how to begin to tell him where I have been, and why I went, and how it is that I am not still there, and he is looking at me with concern and the walls are dancing with each other, and suddenly I am seeing the roof beams, and thinking, that’s not right.

 

‘That’s not right,’ I say, or maybe it is, ‘Help me, beloved.’

 

I can’t move. The walls and the roof join in one insane swirl, and all the lights go out.

 

…

 

Somebody is groaning.

 

Arthur is sitting by my bedside. He looks grim and exhausted.

Has he been there all night?

I try to speak, but all that comes out is another groan.

 

Arthur looks round.

We have been here before. Beltane, and Yule, and Garet’s wedding …

 

‘Bucket?’ he asks.

I nod, and then wish I hadn’t. ‘Bucket,’ I say through clenched teeth.

He places it carefully; holds my hair out of the way; pats my back.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, when I can speak again. ‘I’m sorry to come home like this.’

He takes the bucket away to empty it, and comes back with water and a cloth.

‘I’m just happy you came home at all,’ he says, the words coming out in a rush, as though he finds them difficult to say.

I look at him; seeing him clearly now. There are tears in his eyes.

 

‘Arthur …’

 

I reach out my hand, but he gets abruptly to his feet and steps away. ‘We’ll talk later, Kai,’ he says. ‘But for now, you need to rest. And I’ve got work to do.’

 

The room seems very empty after he has gone.

 

I lie back exhausted, unable to sleep. My head is pounding fiercely and there is still a knot of fear at the back of my throat.

 

I may not be able to stay here.

 

Perhaps, despite what Rolf said, coming back was a mistake.

What if I am no longer welcome?

Arthur was kind enough, but perhaps he was just being practical. Maybe he will just sober me up and send me on my way.

If he’d really wanted to stay here with me, neither his work nor anything short of a band of marauding Picts would have prevented him.

 

My mouth is dry. I need water. I haul myself off the bed, careful not to move too suddenly: it feels as though my head is about to shake loose from my body. I refill my cup from the big pitcher on the table, and drink deep.

 

Suddenly aware that I stink of stale sweat, I strip myself of my filthy, travel-stained clothes; rummage in the big chest for clean ones, hugely relieved to find that Arthur has not done what I would have in his place, and cleared away all the belongings I did not take with me.

 

Perhaps, after all, he did believe I would return…

 

I pour the rest of the pitcher’s contents into a basin, and clean myself as best I can.

Then I dress in clean breeches and shirt, and go back to bed.

 

I pull the sheepskins over my face to shut out the light, and fall into an uneasy dream. Something is chasing me, something I can’t see clearly, just a dark shape in the corner of my eye. I dare not look round or it will fall on me and tear me apart. I stumble over the rocky ground, alone in this bleak terrain; I can see no light anywhere, and I know that there is nobody within earshot to hear me call for help. Suddenly something tangles my feet and I am falling, and I can see that what has tripped me is Arthur’s lifeless body, pale-faced and grim. I can’t get my breath –

 

I wake in a cold sweat, my heart pounding and a bitter taste in my mouth. I pull the covers off my face and sit up. For a moment I panic; I can see no light anywhere. Then I hear voices in the hall, and see a faint glimmer of torchlight under the closed door of the bedchamber.

 

I have slept the afternoon away, and the others are coming in for the daymeal.

It smells good, whatever it is. My stomach growls with hunger, but I dare not go through into the hall. I am unsure of my welcome there.

My eyes are growing accustomed to the dimness. I look across the familiar room to the empty space where Llud’s bed used to stand.

 

Llud is gone.

 

I am a lone Saxon in this Celtic village, and there is no strong father here to defend me any more.

All my loss and loneliness; all the reasons I left this place, all fall in on me and overwhelm me. I bow my head to my knees in despair, and start to cry.

 

‘Kai?’

 

Arthur’s voice seems to be coming from a long way off. There is a faint clatter as something is set down on the table, and then Arthur is sitting beside me, his arm around my shoulders.

 

‘My heart, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long. In fact I shouldn’t have left you at all. Forgive me.’

 

My brother is trying to comfort me; but I can’t bring myself to believe it yet.

 

‘I’m the one who shouldn’t have left,’ I say, without looking at him. ‘But I couldn’t bear – to think that it might be you whom I failed, the next time – that it might be you lying there dead…’

‘Kai,’ he says, and lifts my head up so he can wipe my face. ‘It’s all right.’

I cannot speak.

 

‘I brought our food in here,’ he says, getting up and going over to the table, where there is a trencher piled high. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to face them all, not with a head as sore as yours must be.’

‘Practical as ever,’ I say, sniffing, and it is nonsense, but it doesn’t matter any more.

We sit side by side on the bed, sharing the trencher, and I taste nothing, for the joy of having Arthur here beside me…

 

‘What?’

 

He has caught me looking at him.

 

‘You’re not angry,’ I say.

 

‘I was,’ he replies, his brow creasing. ‘I was so angry I didn’t know how to bear it. And then I tried to shut it all away …’

 

I dare to reach up and stroke his forehead, smoothing out the lines.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Rolf told me what you said.’

He looks into my eyes. ‘I am glad that it was not true,’ he says.

‘What would Llud have said if he’d heard us talk like that?’ I ask, smiling through my gathering tears.

Arthur snorts. ‘He wouldn’t have said anything. He’d simply have tanned both our arses …’

 

And now I am weeping for our father, without restraint.

‘I thought he would make a heroic end.’ I choke with sobs. ‘But it was just – trivial. One moment there, the next, cut down.’

‘None of us knows how his end will come,’ Arthur says, stroking my hair. ‘But that’s not important. So long as we know we have given our lives in defence of what is good, and right, and dear to us. Be comforted, Kai. Llud knew he’d saved your life, and that I was coming for you. He would have asked for no more.’

‘We never had a chance to say goodbye …’ My voice is still quavering.

‘His place in the warriors’ resting hall is assured,’ Arthur says. ‘And one day we’ll go there too, and he’ll be there waiting for us. Remember what he used to say?’

 

‘ “Under the apple trees outside the golden door,” ’ I say, and it seems that I can hear our father’s voice saying it too.

 

And suddenly I am comforted. He is not gone; not as long as we remember him.

 

‘Do you remember that story he used to tell?’ I ask.

‘Which one?’ Arthur says, and now he is smiling.

‘The one about the mad Cornishman who tried to sell him a mermaid.’

 

We lie there and trade Llud-stories, laughing and weeping by turns, until we have finished the mead. Then we strip and get under the covers and lie there and trade tender, sleepy caresses until the torch gutters out and the peaceful darkness closes over us.

 

I am home.

 

I fall asleep still marvelling at the warmth of my brother’s hand in mine.

 

 _It’s spring again, and business is brisk. I have just finished clearing the tables after the mid-day meal when the strange little Celtic preacher comes through the door._

 _‘Any chance of a drink for a poor holy man?’ he says, smiling._

 _‘I can get you some water, sir,’ I say, smiling back._

 _‘You remember me, then,’ he says. ‘Out of all the people you must have had through here over the winter… Remarkable.’_

 _‘Yes, I remember you,’ I say. ‘I can’t promise you a miracle this time, though.’_

 _‘A cup of water will do just as well,’ he answers, sitting down at the corner table. ‘And perhaps some bread to go with it? Or a morsel of roast meat … and some cheese. I’m very partial to cheese …’_

 _I sneak into the kitchen and filch a plate of provisions while the cook’s back is turned. Then, greatly daring, I take a clean cup and fill it from the big wine jug._

 _‘Bless you, my child,’ the preacher says, when I return. He falls on the food and drink as though he is starving, although he looks pretty well-fed to me._

 _‘I want payment,’ I say, surprised at my own boldness._

 _He looks up at me in alarm. ‘Payment? But I am a man of simple means…’_

 _I grin at him. ‘Not money. But tell me something. Last autumn, when you came here before, you took away that big drunk Saxon. Did he ever get home? Back to his brother? I never even asked his name, and I’ve spent all winter wondering about him.’_

 _A big, cheerful, genuine smile lights up the little man’s face._

 _‘You mean Kai? The Saxon who rides with Arthur? Oh yes, he’s home all right. And if you’ll miraculously cause this cup to refill itself, I’ll tell you all about him …’_


End file.
